


Reverse Pathetic Fallacy

by KateAtTheClose



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateAtTheClose/pseuds/KateAtTheClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lipton gets pneumonia and the chance to see a different side of Lieutenant Speirs and Easy Company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverse Pathetic Fallacy

  
            After the enduring cold, hunger and misery of the Bois Jacques, every man in Easy came out of the long month in the Ardennes worse for wear.  Some, like trench foot, were visible and obvious, to be looked over by the medics and half-heartedly grumbled about.  Others, like the overwhelming knowledge of your own mortality, were hidden and covered over with a bad joke and a desperate cigarette.  The night spent in the convent in Rachamps had been a heaven-sent respite, but it had been far too brief to be anything but a reminder of what sleeping with a roof overhead felt like.

 

            When they climbed back on the troop trucks, exhausted and haggard, and headed out towards Alsace, it was a flooding reminder of what numbing cold and sodden snow felt like as it seeped beneath your collar and underneath your skin.  When Lipton started roughly coughing into his half-gloved hand, he joined about a half-dozen men on that truck alone who all harboured respiratory ailments.  It was only to be expected as the trucks crept along the ice-slicked roads and the wind blew snow and sleet into their faces.    

 

            By the second day of the trip, the tight feeling in his chest and the steadily more painful and racking dry coughs were irritants, but no more so than not being able to feel the tips of his fingers or stop the jarring shivering that rattled his bones and made him ache all over.  It was after a day of sitting hunched over, arms crossed and chin tucked into his chest, shivering and coughing too much to even smoke to pass the time, that someone mentioned it for the first time.

 

            “Hey, Lip, you don’t look so good.”

 

            It was getting dark, but the wind and snow hadn’t let up.  It took Lipton a moment to get his bearings, having concentrated on breathing and resisting the urge to cough for the past few hours and letting the conversation spin on without him.  Lipton looked beside him, having to gather up the willpower to turn his head, and found not only Luz, on his immediate left, but Christenson beside him, watching him closely.  It took another moment for Lipton to realize that it was because he hadn’t answered right away, hadn’t smiled and given one of his customary assurances that he was alright, that everything was alright, that everything would be alright.   Just do your jobs, boys, and we’ll do fine.  Do what you gotta do, and I’ll worry about the rest.   

 

            “Just a little cold.  Who isn’t, huh?”  Lipton tried to force a laugh, but it got garbled up somewhere on the way out and turned into a cough.  He turned his head to the right, covering his mouth and closing his eyes as sharp pain shot through his chest.  Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there.  Suddenly he was bent over towards his empty right side, hacking and coughing like he was an eighty year old man and not just twenty-four.  He vaguely felt an arm around his shoulders, holding him steady, and another hand on his arm as he fought for breath and wondered hazily if he would ever stop.

 

            Luckily, he did, but he’d never felt more drained in his life as when he sat there, bent over half way with his elbows perched on his knees, his shaking slipped in with his shivering until he couldn’t tell the difference between them.  Weak and worn-out, he could hear the boys talking around him, but all he could do was spit whatever it was that was suddenly in his mouth off the side of the truck. 

 

            “We’re almost there, Lip.”  It was Luz, leaning in and tilting his face so that Lipton could see him without having to move.   Lipton looked at him tiredly and saw big dark eyes in a dirty pale face.  Luz had gotten Lipton’s canteen off him and removed the top, and Lipton took the offered drink gratefully, his fingers shaking but still able to keep it to his lips.  “We’ll get you a bed somewhere all nice and covered, and find a pretty mademoiselle to help you keep warm.”  There were chuckles all around them, but Lipton was lost in a fleeting thought of JoAnne, his pretty wife, tucked in next to him in sleep, the smooth fabric of her floral nightgown no match for the softness of her skin. 

 

            “You still with us there, Sarge?”  Lipton recognized the voice as Malarkey’s, and managed to push himself up with unsteady arms to lean back against the side of the truck, more able to see the man across from him.  Malarkey looked like hell, gaunt and battered both physically and emotionally, and Lipton immediately saw the absurdity that he would be asking after  _him_ , when it should so obviously be the other way around. 

 

“Yeah, boy.”  His voice was hoarse, his throat sharply sore, but he managed to rummage up a tilt of his mouth upwards.  It wasn’t quite a reassuring smile, but it got the point across.

 

            Malarkey responded with a weak smile of his own, and Lipton tried not to be too concerned, even as his thought started to drift in a strange way, that it didn’t even come close to reaching Malarkey’s eyes.  Beside Malarkey, Bull had an unlit cigar tucked between his lips, stubbornly keeping it there despite the still-falling snow that prevented it from staying lit.  He saw Lipton’s eyes shift from Malarkey to him, and gave Lipton a steady nod in return.

 

            Luz was right; soon the trucks did stop in the city of Toul, outside a cluster of French homes that had been deserted in previous weeks.  Christenson and Bull helped him out of the truck, but even that much movement had him coughing tiredly onto the back of his hand, and leaning suddenly on Christenson when everything started to spin around him.  There were things he needed to do, as a platoon leader and as First Sergeant, to get everyone settled into the night.  He needed to go talk to Lieutenant Speirs, to Lieutenant Foley…

 

            Somehow, despite his intentions to do all these things come hell or high water, he found himself instead sitting and shivering on a couch inside, Christenson’s hand on his shoulder, as Doc Roe approached with Luz hot on his heels. 

 

            “Hey there First Sergeant,” Doc was just as pale as ever, even if his features were less strained and sharp than they were in Bastogne.  He gave Lipton a small smile in greeting, and crouched down so that he was at eye level with him.  “How long’ve you been coughin’ for?”

 

            “Two days.”   Lipton murmured, resisting the urge to cough, afraid that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.  Doc pressed a hand to Lipton’s forehead, his face unreadable.  His hand felt impossibly warm to Lipton, who was sure his teeth were still chattering.

 

            “Any blood?”  Lipton shook his head, opting to save himself the effort of answering out loud.  “Does it hurt to breathe?”   He nodded, one hand automatically going to his chest, where with every inhale sharp shooting pains reminded him that breathing was a really bad idea right about now.

 

            “Get some sleep, Sergeant.”  Doc patted his arm, then stood up and turned to Luz.  “Where’s he stayin’?”

 

            Lipton didn’t get a chance to hear Luz’s answer, because all of a sudden there was no holding it back anymore, and he burst out coughing.  Long, racking coughs that continued until he gasped for breath, every desperate inhale only prompting another agonizing burst.  He reflexively bent over himself, clutching at his shirtfront, knowing a hand was rubbing his back in a comforting way, even as he strained and tears burned in his eyes.  Finally, the fit died away, and he was left lead-limbed and dizzy.  Hands helped him slip sideways on the couch until his head was pillowed on the armrest.

 

            “No, leave ‘im there for now.”  Lipton recognized the Cajun lilt as belonging to Doc, even if his form wasn’t visible to his half-lidded, spinning gaze.  He saw Luz sit down on the couch at his feet, and turn to say something to Christenson.  Lipton’s eyes slipped close and he was gone to dreams of frozen foxholes, brilliant fireworks, red blood painting patterns in the snow, and an iron band slowly twisting across his chest, squeezing the life from him as he was powerless to do anything but watch.   

 

            He woke some time later with a jolt, springing up on the couch only to be sent double in a coughing fit.  A hand was on his shoulder, warm and comforting, thumb brushing back and forth across his shoulder blade in a way that was distinctly soothing.  When Lipton was able to pry his eyes open, his chest and throat on fire but able to breathe again, there was a glass of water being offered to him.  He took it in his shaking hands, having to use both to keep it still, and gulped down enough to temporarily sooth his throat.  He moved to hand it back to Luz, but when he shifted his gaze to the man next to him, he found it was Lieutenant Speirs watching him with dark eyes, his hand still on Lipton’s shoulder.

 

            “Sir?”  Lipton croaked, mortified.  Speirs didn’t move.

 

            “Doc Roe says you need to go to a hospital.”  It was said conversationally.

 

            Lipton felt something like dread coil in his gut at the thought of going off the line.  It wasn’t that he wouldn’t appreciate a break from the constant cold and the decrease in the likelihood of getting shot, because, really, he would.  But his place was with Easy, watching over the boys, doing whatever he could to keep the sixty-three he listed off on his company roster in Rachamps from dropping down any lower. 

 

            “I’d rather not leave the men, Sir.”  Lipton said firmly.

 

            The corners of Speirs’ mouth turned up slowly, and he pressed Lipton’s shoulder briefly before removing his hand, sitting back against the other side of the couch, his arm slung over the back.  “I thought you’d say that, First Sergeant.” 

 

            Lipton rubbed a hand over his face, relieved, his surprise wearing off and having to hug his arms to his chest as his shivering took over.  Being indoors and was a definite improvement over the wind and snow of the truck, but he still felt chilled down to his very core.  His shoulder, especially, seemed strangely cold once the Lieutenant had moved his hand.

 

            “We’ll reach Drulingen by tomorrow.” Spiers said evenly.  Lipton had to concentrate to listen to him, his mind vaguely cotton-filled and slipping from one thing to another in a very disorienting way.  “There’s an aid station there for you to get looked at.”  

 

            Lipton felt the rush of uneasiness return, and opened his mouth to insist that he didn’t need to be taken away from the Company, but his chest rebelled and he had to turn away and cough roughly into his hand.  Luckily, it didn’t last too long, but it left his chest aching, his head pounding, and Lipton unwilling to blatantly lie and say he was fine.  He felt more ill than he ever had in his life, and was hugely embarrassed that it was in front of Easy’s new CO, a man that Lipton respected more each day. 

 

            “Get some sleep, Lipton.”  Lipton could have sworn that Speirs’ voice was warmer than he had ever heard it. 

 

            “Yes, Sir.”  Lipton whispered hoarsely, and allowed his heavy eyes to close.  He wondered dazedly as he sunk into sleep why Speirs was sitting beside him, but was oddly certain that he didn’t hear him get up again.   

 

                       

-

 

 

            The next morning, Lipton woke to Shifty shaking his shoulder. 

 

            “Hey, Lip, we gotta go.” 

 

            He dragged his eyes open with no little effort, even more lethargic and hazy than he’d been yesterday.

 

            “What’s that, Shifty?”  There was apparently a disconnect between his mind and everything going on around him.  He slowed his breathing in an attempt to resist the urge to cough, and tried not to wince when pain sparked in his chest. 

 

            Shifty just looked at him, then pressed a hand to his forehead like he was his mother.  Lipton looked up at him, dizzily amused.  “Aw hell.  No wonder you’re so outta it.” 

 

            “Heeeey, how’re ya doin’, Lip?”  Luz appeared at Shifty’s side, a grin plastered on his face. 

 

            “Boy’d have to be missing both arms and legs, have hypothermia, a bayonet wound and typhoid a’fore he’d complain.” Lipton turned to where Bull was standing by the door, ever-present cigar in his mouth, and noticed for the first time that he was alone on the couch and the Company was moving through the door all around him.  Embarrassed again, this time to be sitting around when everyone was on the move, Lipton found it strangely difficult to gather up the strength to get up.

 

            “Fine and dandy, Luz.”  Lipton managed a smile, even if it did have to be followed by some muffled coughs.

 

            “Huh, I bet.  Up an’ at ‘em, Sarge.”  Luz shook his head fondly, giving Lipton a hand up.  Once on his feet, he was more awake and aware, and moved towards the door with Luz at his side, who kept suspiciously close as if waiting for him to trip.

 

            Speirs appeared out of nowhere, his hand on Luz’s arm.  “Keep an eye on him, Sergeant.”  His voice was stern and deadly serious.  

 

            “Yessir.” Luz assured him with a nod, then Speirs was out the door and moving towards his jeep.  Luz looked at Lipton after he’d gone, a bemused expression on his face.  Like Bull, he’d decided to enjoy an early-morning smoke, and had a cigarette dangling out one side of his mouth.  “Jesus, what, he think I was just gunna let you fall outta the back of the truck or something?” 

 

            “Or something.”  Lipton agreed mildly, just as perplexed by Speirs’ sudden great interest in his welfare.   But he couldn’t help remembering that moment as he fell asleep, when Speirs hadn’t left. 

 

-

 

            He had been thankful many times before that Easy had been taken off the line, but never for such selfish reasons.  He couldn’t breathe without sharp pain in his chest and the debilitating need to cough.  He could barely keep up a conversation before his mind wandered or he got confused.  He shivered miserably, frozen and pathetic, as the snow and wind battered at his face and the truck slowly crept towards Drulingen.  If he had needed to do anything but sit there and shiver, Lipton honestly knew he wouldn’t have a chance.  He couldn’t lead his platoon, couldn’t look after anyone. Hell, apparently he couldn’t even look after himself.  He’d get himself and the boys killed, but Lipton still knew that he couldn’t willingly leave them.  His place was here.

 

            He spent the morning with his arms crossed tight against his chest and his chin tucked into his collar.  All his experience in putting on a brave face was coming in handy, but there was only so much he could do.  Sometime in the middle of the day he fell into a fitful sleep, only to wake with his head on Luz’s shoulder, and the other man’s arm around him.  He immediately moved to sit up, but Luz tugged him back down again.  “Lip, you don’t drool or snore, you’re fine.”  Strangely unable to do more than look at Luz with what he hoped was sincere thankfulness with traitorous eyes that were determined to close, he went back to sleep.

 

            They woke him in what was quickly becoming an embarrassing ritual.  Before he’d even gotten off the truck, Doc Roe was there, with a gentle hand pressed to his forehead and bending down to look at him with worried dark eyes. 

 

            “You need ta come with me, Sir.”

 

            Lipton only nodded, and managed to get to his feet and follow the Doc with only one coughing fit between the jeep and the aid station.   

 

            He wasn’t really completely aware of what was going on, things either hazy or a bit too bright, but sat where he was told and answered yes or no to the severe-looking medical officer.  Doc Roe was in the background somewhere, listening in quietly.  Lipton’s mind wandered, even as his vitals were taken, his chest was listened to, and things were scribbled down.

 

            “-understand me, Sergeant?”

 

            Lipton blinked, scrubbing a hand over his face and concentrating on listening and comprehending what the medical officer was saying.  He couldn’t remember what he’d said his name was.

 

            “Sorry?”

 

            “You’ve got pneumonia.  Fever of 104 degrees, chills, cough… we need to get you to a hospital before it gets any worse.”  The officer didn’t sound particularly worried, and Lipton thought it might be because he wasn’t bleeding out or filled with shrapnel. 

 

            “I can’t leave.”  Lipton’s spoke evenly, so his breath wouldn’t get caught in his chest.  Doc was beside him now.

 

            “Excuse me?”  It was the medical officer’s turn to be taken aback.  Lipton supposed he didn’t often get his patients arguing about being evacuated. 

 

            “I need to stay here. I’m First Sergeant, of Easy Company,” Lipton paused, wincing.  He continued, determined.  “I can’t go, Sir.”

 

            The medical officer turned away, propping a piece of paper on a nearby stretcher and writing something down, only distractedly responding to Lipton.  It was obvious that he had already moved on to his next case with clinical efficiency, and had no patience for patients who disregarded his advice.

 

            “Why would I care who the hell you were?  I know who you are, First Sergeant Lipton.  But bacterial pneumonia is serious, and you’re no use to anyone when you’re dead.”  He glanced up from his paperwork, not looking at Lipton, but instead his eyes flicking to Doc Roe.  “There won’t be another evac today, and we’ve got no room here.  Keep him with your Company tonight, and send him back here in the morning.”  Then he was off, intercepting and leading a man with a wrapped foot to a nearby stretcher.   

 

            Lipton looked at Doc Roe, who merely looked back, his pale face set against any argument.  Effectively cut off at the pass, and realizing despite his fever-hazy thoughts that he really was no use to the boys as he was, he just slowly exhaled.  Naturally, it turned into a cough, and by the time they reached the German house in which the Company was billeting, Doc had one arm around him and Lipton just about ready to collapse from exhaustion.   

 

            Speirs was speaking with Winters and Nixon when Lipton made it through the front doors.  Lipton nodded to the Lieutenant and Captains when he saw them looking his way, and leaned against the wall when Doc Roe went to talk to them quietly.  He knew he should follow, should listen in, should assure the officers that he was fine, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move.  The officers seemed to be listening intently to whatever it was Doc said, and glanced over at him once or twice between nodding.  Lipton wasn’t aware that his eyes had closed until Speirs put a hand on his arm.

 

            “You’re with me, First Sergeant.  Come on, I’ll show you where it is.” 

 

            Lipton, by this point, was quite fed up with this business of being carted around like a senile old grandmother, but when he saw the flight of stairs that led to the bedrooms, he had to admit defeat.  He was so weak and shaking with chills that he was having trouble standing, let alone climbing a steep stairway.  Speirs just wrapped an arm around Lipton’s waist and together they made it up.  Lipton was once again humiliated by his status as an invalid.  He hated being useless and getting in the way. 

 

            Speirs pushed the door open with his left hand, and Lipton felt his heart sink.  Cold, tired and ill as he was, he wanted nothing more than to just collapse onto a mattress.  With the room only containing one bed, he knew he was fated to sleeping curled up in a sleeping bag on the hard floor. 

 

            Which drew the question of where he sleeping bag  _was._  

 

            “I’m sorry Sir, but I’ve left my sleeping bag downstairs.”  The concept of going all the way down for it seemed insurmountably difficult, even for a man who had run Sobel’s mad dashes of Currahee. 

 

            “Nonsense, Sergeant.”  Speirs lugged him over to the bed, threw back the covers, and pointed to the wonderful-looking pillow and folded back.  “Get in.”

 

            “S’not right, Sir.”  He wanted to sink his head into that pillow, and close his eyes.  “You’re a lieutenant.”  He realized how much of a dunce he sounded, but quickly decided that he would just blame it on the fever and not on the way that Speirs was watching him, as if he could read his mind.

 

            “And you’ve got pneumonia.  I think life-threatening illness trumps rank.”  And Speirs put his hands on Lipton’s shoulders, giving only the slight force needed for Lipton to move forward and drop bonelessly onto the bed, filthy uniform and all.  Lying horizontal on something soft was complete bliss, and he was momentarily rendered entirely incapable of motion.  Speirs threw the sheets back over him, his hand coming to rest on Lipton’s shoulder.  Lipton’s eyes slipped close of their own accord, and Lipton felt the hand removed and couldn’t figure out why he felt so disappointed. 

 

* * *

 

  
            There was a strange succession of half-awake, half-dreamed sequences that followed, wherein he had brief flashes of lucidity and longer periods of disorientation.  He recognized Luz, at one point, and had tried to keep up with the quick cadence of his speech but mostly failed.  There was an old man with a tray of food who Lipton thought might have been speaking German, the tray being found on the bedside table when he subsequently was aware again.  Doc Roe showed up, to press his absurdly warm and marvellous hands against Lipton’s forehead and pile on more blankets to his bed from some unknown source.  Speirs was there at the oddest of times, standing at the foot of his bed with his arms crossed, inspecting the tray, rearranging the blankets. 

 

            Despite the blankets and jackets and various articles of clothing and material that had somehow managed to find their way on top of him, Lipton still found himself woken by the shivering and chills that never seemed to stop.  He knew immediately that it was late in the night, when the dimness and the quiet seemed to muffle everything.  He lay there, curled up and freezing. 

 

            Then, warmth, a hand on his forehead.  Expecting Doc Roe, Lipton didn’t bother opening his eyes.  The hand slipped down to his cheek, pressing for a moment in wonderful, brilliant warmth before leaving once more.  Opening his eyes and looking up, Lipton felt a twist of shock when he saw it was Speirs standing over him.  Behind him on the floor, his bedroll looked rumpled, as if he had just come from it. 

 

            “How are you doing, Lipton?”  Speirs’ voice was quiet in the still night air, his face sheathed in shadow.  If it hadn’t been for the gentle hand on his foreheads moments before, Lipton would have felt that he very much looked the part for the terrifying man the rumours made him out to be. 

 

            And, fever-numbed, he answered truthfully.  “Cold, Sir.”  He had to make an effort to fit the words in around the chattering of his teeth.  “So cold.”

 

            For a moment, Speirs didn’t move.  Then, “Move over.”

 

            “Sir?”  Lipton was sure that this command made sense somehow, but he was at a loss as to how in his dizzy mind.

 

            “Move over towards the edge, Lipton.”  Speirs repeated, but with no of the harshness or blind command that many plain orders carried. 

 

            Lipton did so, obeying the strange command, then letting his head fall thankfully back to the pillow.   He just watched, dumbly, as Speirs pulled back the blankets and slid under them beside him, throwing them back over them.  He settled on his back, then reached over and gently tugged a strangely unable to move Lipton over to him, putting his arm around Lipton’s back and drawing him close.

 

            Lipton found his head pillowed on the crook between Speirs’ chest and shoulder, pressed up against the other man.  He suddenly noticed that Speirs was only wearing a t-shirt and trousers, and was brilliantly warm.  Body heat.  Fantastic, amazing body heat.  Lipton observed himself instinctively pressing closer, desperately wanting relief from the painful chills that racked him.  Speirs didn’t say anything, just pulled the covers closer up around them, and brushed a thumb absently over Lipton’s shoulder.  As the heat settled over him, better than any blanket, Lipton was already in the jumbled, hazy images of surreal fever dreams.

 

            There was an explosion, loud and shattering, and the creak of a building caving under the pressure in the shuddering groan of ripped foundations and crushed bricks.  Someone was screaming, for a medic, for their mother, and there were shouts, military orders, in the clipped, controlled dialogue of the absolutely terrified.  Lipton turned, pressed to a wall, to shout at his platoon, but just as he turned, a bullet slammed into the head of the man next to him.  Catching the body as it fell to the ground, Lipton found himself doing all the unwise things they warned you not to do, you couldn’t do when under fire.  Useless, time-wasting and irresponsible things.

 

            He tugged off the helmet with the bloody hole, even as he wondered what the use would be.  Dead, that’s what shots to the head got you, dead.  Blood matted black hair, thick and disgusting and that was  _brain_  and  _skull_  and why was he looking?  Suddenly, his eyes slipped downwards, past the pale forehead, beneath the dark eyebrows, to the wide, empty death-dulled brown eyes of Lieutenant Speirs.  Lipton recoiled, shock making his body move on its own, even as the ground shook beneath him and dirt and gravel flew at his face from the impact.  He turned around, to see this nameless city they were liberating?  Invading?  Occupying? 

 

            It didn’t matter.  Do what you’re told. 

 

Stone, blood, smoke, everywhere in the fractured town square, suddenly soundless, the blur of falling artillery, almost too quick to see, then half a building missing, grey billowing up into the sky.  Men in uniforms crouching, silent mouths opening and closing, their faces screwed up in the desperation of trying to live, trying to survive when the order of the day was death, die, give up.  

 

Lipton put a hand to his ears, wondering mutely at the silence, fingers giving no response of feeling as he tugged off his helmet and dropped it to the ground.  He turned, back to his men, back to those he was supposed to look after, his responsibility, to protect as best he could when everything was stacked against them.  Chips fall where they may, they said, Lipton didn’t know who, but he didn’t want them to, wanted to keep them from falling, wanted to keep them stacked up and safe as the game played out around him and them.

 

But when he turned, motions slow like he was underwater, he found the line of men behind him lying scattered and prone across the dirty cobblestone streets, battered and broken.  Like so many puppets with their strings cut, so many toy soldiers with their mechanical twist-turns snapped, discarded in their dust-greyed uniforms soaking steadily darker with deep red blood.

 

Lipton moved forward, no intention of moving, but suddenly on his knees beside – who was this? – what used to be Talbert.  Blood, blood everywhere, soaking into the fabric of his trousers, the smell thick and cloying, painting his hands red like a child’s attempts at finger painting as he uselessly looked for a pulse.

 

Dead, dead, dead, dead…

 

The morbid litany in his head blocked out all other thoughts.  He looked up and to the side, and saw the lifeless eyes of Luz stare back at him.  No joke, no secret amusement hidden behind them, no laughter.  Then, further on, Babe, young face slack and bathed in red.  Then –

 

            “-wood, can you hear me?”

 

            Someone was shaking him with a firm grip on his shoulders, so tight as to be painful.  His mind was a whirl of staring, glassy, lifeless eyes and shattered buildings and explosions and rifles, and his reflexive reaction when held down was to fight back. 

 

            He wrenched himself back, hands clenching into fists and moving to throw off his unseen assailant.  He could hear a voice, but didn’t comprehend what it was saying, too busy knocking away hands that seemed to be reaching for him, to hold him down, to choke the life out of him.  His back collided with something hard, and the air immediately departed from his lungs.  And, most alarmingly, didn’t return.  Now his panicking was of a different sort, not blind self-defence, but instead the absolute certainty that he couldn’t  _breathe_ , and the awareness that he  _very much_  needed to be able to do that to survive. 

 

            The voice was trying to talk to him again, and Lipton could only concentrate on the dizzying spin of the world around him, and listen to the screams of his dying friends and the roar of crumbling cities.

 

            Then, things slowed down.  Whoever was speaking to him was talking calmly, steadily, and despite the sharp pain in his heaving chest, there were breaths managing to make it through and clear his head of the heavy confusion.

 

            “-that’s it, nice and slow, you’re alright, you’re fine, Carwood, you’re fine, keep going, nice slow breaths-”

 

            The world suddenly gave a sharp, maniacal tilt to the side, and when Lipton blinked, hands clenching in the fabric beneath him against the disorientation, he saw Speirs sitting across from him in the darkness.  He had his hands pressed flat against his thighs, and his eyes were pools of black as they stared at Lipton intently. 

 

            “-you with me again?”  Speirs asked, pausing in his ongoing speech.  His hair was mussed with sleep, and sitting cross-legged as he was on the end of the bed, in his white t-shirt and trousers, it was hard to associate this man with the supposedly wild and fearsome Lieutenant. 

 

            “Yes, Sir.”  Something in Lipton felt broken, upset, even as his mind spun as it confusingly tried to make sense of all this, to differentiate between what was and what wasn’t. 

 

            “Good.”  Speirs stood from the bed, and walked to the table running along side the wall.  He returned, unscrewing a canteen, and stood beside the bed, holding the open bottle towards Lipton.  “Drink this.”

 

            There wasn’t room for argument, although Lipton couldn’t imagine why he’d turn down water.  He drank slowly, loathe to choke, cough or splutter in the state his lungs were in.  

 

            “Thank you, Sir.”  Lipton murmured, voice only a whisper in the dim room.  He handed the canteen back to Speirs, for lack of anywhere else to put it.  He was freezing, shivering, but his head felt as if it weighed thirty more pounds than normal, and every movement he made seemed to have a lag between the thought and the action.  Speirs only nodded, then sat back down on the bed.  He slid in beneath the sheets, and Lipton obediently moved over to allow him room.  Speirs leaned against the bed’s headboard, like Lipton, and tucked an arm around his shoulders.  Lipton laid his head back against the warmth of Speirs’ shoulder and thought it might just be the most comfortable he’d ever been.

 

            “I need you to keep and eye on them, Sir.”  Lipton was talking, speaking the words carefully even before he knew he was saying them.  “I need you to look after them when I’m not there to do it.”

 

            Lipton expected a terse ‘the army got on fine before you joined it, Sergeant, they’ll manage after you leave.’

 

            “I’ll do my best.”  Lipton could feel the soft vibration of Speirs’ chest as he spoke, voice smooth with a quiet confidence. 

 

            “Malarkey, especially.”  Lipton stared into the darkness of the other end of the room and saw an empty foxhole, saw Malarkey clutching a dead man’s rosary, saw emptiness and desolation in what used to be life.  “He’s not doing so good.”

 

            “Alright.”

 

            “Luz.  Him too.”  Two legs when there should have been four, wide eyes, gritted teeth, failed artillery shells and cigarettes.  No laughter. 

 

            “Okay.”          

 

“And watch the medics,” Red crosses and blood on their hands, shouts and screams and both too similar to tell which ones were which.  “They get forgotten about, sometimes, until they’re needed.” 

 

            “Doc Roe and Doc Spina.”

 

            “And…”  Spiralling bodies, dead eyes looking up at him, eagle patches unrecognizable in the dirt, blood marking his hands and his face and getting in his mouth, sharp and metallic, and thick in his nose –

 

            “Carwood.  I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”  Speirs was running a hand absently up and down Lipton’s arm, the motion soothing and grounding Lipton’s fevered thoughts.  “Go back to sleep, and stop worrying.”

 

            Lipton merely closed his eyes, and his mind stayed with warmth and strength and didn’t venture off into chaos again.

           

-

 

            The medical officer didn’t know what to say.  Doc Roe stood beside Lipton, taking the officer’s incredulous looks with raised eyebrows and a shrug. 

 

            “Your fever’s gone.”  The medical officer repeated, letting the hand holding the papers fall to his side, and shoving a hand under his helmet to rub at his hairs.  “How the goddamn hell is your fever gone?”

 

            “I dunno, Sir.”  Lipton gave him a bemused smile.  “Does this mean I don’t have to be sent to the hospital?”  Lipton could have sworn that the corner of Doc’s mouth turned up in a smile. 

 

            The medical officer gave the papers one last look, then tossed them aside onto a box of bandages. “The cough and fatigue will stay, likely for weeks.”

 

            “I kind of expected that, Sir.”  Lipton admitted, rubbing his aching chest absently.  “But I’d still like to stay with my Company.”

 

            “You’ll feel like you’ve been run over by a jeep, multiple times.”  The medical officer looked truly perplexed.  “You could be lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by nurses, with antibiotics and painkillers.”

 

            “That sounds nice and all,” Lipton tried for sincerity.  “But I really would rather stay with Easy, Sir.”

 

            The medical officer stared at him for a moment, and then threw up his hands in defeat.  “Fine.  Go back to your Company, even if you still have pneumonia.  I hope they realize how supremely fuckin’ dedicated you are.”

 

            “I’m sure they have some idea, Sir.”  Lipton said mildly, and now he knew for certain that Doc Roe had a smile on his face. 

 

            The officer didn’t stick around long after giving up on him.  Doc Roe looked at him.  Lipton looked up at him, shrugging.  Doc shook his head, and offered Lipton a hand up.  He took it, and together they walked out of the aid station and towards the troop trucks.

 

            “Sergeant, I’m startin’ ta think God gave Easy COs the miraculous power ta heal.”

 

            Lipton looked sideways at Doc Roe, curious as to what sort of miraculous healing Sobel, Winters, Moose or Dike had done, but already too out of breath from the walk to bother asking.  

 

            “I don’t know about that, Doc.”  He worked on keeping his breathing steady, and ignored the pain in his chest.  “But I think we’re set pretty good with Lieutenant Speirs, huh?”

 

            Doc’s reply was cut off as they passed one of the trucks.

 

            “Hey, First Sergeant Lipton!  Ain’t we gotten rid of you yet?”  It was Liebgott, twisted around to get a look down at Lipton and Doc as they walked past. 

 

            “Ah, they didn’t want me.”  Lipton tossed back, his voice hoarse from coughing but otherwise upbeat.

 

            “Ha, yeah right.”  Martin called from across the truck.  “He doesn’t wanna say it, but he couldn’t leave.  He’d miss us too much.”

 

            “Well, maybe not you, Johnny.”  Liebgott grinned, and Martin threw his cigarette butt at him. “Damn, sun’s finally fuckin’ shining, we’re on reserve, Lip’s back.  Hey Jackson, what’s that called, when people and their emotions reflect nature and shit?  You were talkin’ about it earlier when you were ramblin’ on about that high school English paper you wrote.”

 

            “Reverse pathetic fallacy.”  Jackson said nervously from beside Liebgott, sending Lipton an uneasy smile, obviously not sure if he was about to be mocked or not. 

 

            “That’s what this is.”  Liebgott said decisively, sounding decidedly satisfied now that his sudden theory had an important-sounding name.   “Before when it was all freezing and snowing, we were all miserable.  Now, the sun’s out and things are lookin’ up.”

 

            “Joe, where the hell did this optimism come from?”  Martin asked, giving Liebgott a wary look as he lit another cigarette.  “Stop it, its fuckin’ weird.”

 

            Lipton and Doc moved past the truck, but they could just hear Marsh saying “He’s got a point.  Normandy, Bastogne… they both had really shitty weather,” and Liebgott crowing “See?” in response.

 

            They reached the next truck, and a platoon full of faces turned and greeted him with fond surprise.  As Luz and Bull reached down to give Lipton a hand up and Doc Roe moved on down the line of trucks, Lipton caught sight of Speirs, standing next to the jeep, watching Lipton get settled.  Lipton turned in the truck, even as Luz talked at his side, and he could see Speirs’ mouth turn up into a slow smile.  Lipton found himself smiling in response, and gave the lieutenant a nod before turning back to his platoon as the truck rumbled into motion, moving them towards Haguenau.

 


End file.
